Sunday, June 26, 2011


“The head is the hardest lesson. Giving and receiving.
It works overtime to confound, to present you with conflicting but
equally plausible approaches. Like how many licks make a system
of owls? Fewer than its teeth, greater than its barnacled scooter.”
~Sycamore Jimmy

My Arrhythmic Menstrual Spellbinder Test (excerpt)

I am unwittingly pledged.
You are a vintage coupe’.
We are convoluted, adducing
chickens and porcupine jewels.

I am eternally uptown.
You are a draft.
We are bored seeing, see
for yourself.

I am bureaucracy for no extra charge.
You are into bug dancers.
We are that hinge, thudding but alas
no answers.

I am enchantingly retrograde.
You are a security guard at Target.
We form a sarcophagus that is both
ardent and knows what makes this tic.

I am the CEO of a major Catholicism.
You do jokes for change.
We are a cozily monstrous butte
who's subsidy depends on a guy called Cliff.

I am spherically huddled.
You do the paid jerk.
We are a superb young phylum, jouncing
her girlish brand as if the drums are watching.

I am near you.
You are a near life experience.
We both require that your openhanded spraying
provenance be simple subtraction.

Let god blurt out the rest.

Hey, what am I doing with my life?

I am acid of Osiris, refutation
of the last election, of enchilada
entire, the stylist of the hydra, foot-
notes echo where my soul was optional,
I wear mesh to be a lessening unguent,
I am your personal policy sanitizer
dispenser, flippered and thick
with the itch of humankindness.

Thirsty was fun, thrifty was insufficient, thirty was an acceptable insult.
My ring could fetch the paper and remove it from your windpipe once I’d had you.
This thing we could have is a giant standing next to a fridge.
The test hasn’t started yet.
I’m learning martial arts, I’ve always loved working with objects.
Is it predictable to test someone for diseases from other dimensions?
This is where I inevitably infatuate.
To be a chef in a house of whirligigs.

Many are Called, Most are Booty

If I could spit you out just, say, half the time, I would
gladly stay wide open for you and find the jewels
in the toothpaste between periods.
If only it came from your soul.
I would not get too skeeved out or, for example, return
it to the source.
Greedy, me? I swear I’ve left more wilderness
in the wild than otherwise.
I’m rich with the stolen toothpaste of a compassion
based on bicycle parts reassembled into a sort of kinetic
hurricane monument. There’s nothing left to be found.
Differences are what make us different, similarities
are what make us Easter eggs, but I will not leave you
until I lay all the gamblers in Atlantic City and set aside
a grateful stipend for your bout with the big FO.
if you let me in before they get here I will give you a piece
of the Avalon.

What’s More Compelling Than My Melanoma Sour Apple Lipstick?

My jerkwater threshold.

You’ve Only Made One Mistake Fewer than the Sioux, and Yet You’re Leading Your Division.

The gizmo.
I will have it if it kills you. I only know how to tell stories, and even they’re not good.
And at the end of my arm I keep a device to keep your attention fixed on my inattention.
It’s a full blown spiritual quest, it stands alongside the freeway and lights up cool at night.
The old couple there is teaching a course in miracles.

The Geopolitics are Starving for a Kibosh

Flameflower again.
He was the one, no question, still. And he actually said,
“I slaughter that I might one day demilitarize, thematically.”
First you garble, then it’s spring, then you taste the Latinate.
Get wise and tilt.

Little Further Issue

At first the owl was made of lace.
Then butterfly in straightjacket.
Now I can’t call up anything but normalcy.
if you flag down a whale in a rage the skid marks
will last until Monday, latest.
When I aim my mouth monaurally it becomes
telephonic. But metered without race interference
it gets up a head of impossible change.
Posed thusly I am steadying.
Thusly and I am your journey laid flat.
The fish you do like you do your sleeves, playful
in the arcing light of the microwave.
That’s your terabyte of history, this is me not interested.
I tried a gobo on my chronic sleep, but it left me visibly spluttering.
How I know that my life will be blessed.

Thursday, June 23, 2011


I am half as lovely as I look. Multiply that by my weight, my height and my volume.
The colors I see are not the colors you see.
Sensuality is like a woman in the sense that I am a woman.
Step over next to the Jell-O fountain and experience my world through all my senses.

If you are my only friend then I talk to parked cars and mindfuck passing Episcopalians.
If you are among my many friends I listen to you as if through some elaborate system
of support beams installed in the early thirties as part of the Works Progress Administration.
You can see me through the slats of the roller coaster drop. The one made of drugged flies.

If I give you a hug when we meet your wife then I’m probably up for whatever.
If, however, I walk arm in arm with you down the street, you will die soon and not slowly.
I am a thought shot through with fuel cells, a new type of formica vying for market share,
a recalled fire retardant carpet with matching matches, the ing to your oin, a reflex in the vee.

I was once grounded on the very real world you came from. I am bored
with your world but not with you so long as you remain separated. Facts bore me. Fact:
Countries are made of a special resin that holds its resiliency even in extreme temperatures.
Fact: Religions are made of wood.

I have several pairs of penny loafers. Penny loafers. Penny loafers. Penny loafers.
If you say something enough times it becomes another pair of penny loafers.
Penny loafers. Penny loafers. Penny loafers.
I stand in front of all kinds of backgrounds. I expect you to, too.

I don't experience my life through a flat screen. I experience it through a series
of heated tubes, hardened chalk components and miles of tangled wiring.
There is a small gland in the sac that produces a pre-ejaculate. I collect glass beads.
I go out for the swim team and fail to make the first string every year. Fact.

The stuff I do I do for real. The rest is just stiffened window dressing, pretending
to be real then giving names to all the petrified bugs that have preceded me into
the hall of fame. I am not your watch. I am sitting on a crate. I am red.
I rode my bike from Soviet Russia to the Piggly Wiggly on Highway 69. A lie is a fact.

I am a particular sort of woman, as mentioned above. Sensuality is your tipping point.
I love to begin with a glass of wine. How we will end in a crater with multiple debris
trails is anyone’s guess. We might just as well end up on the sofa, or incorporated
into its architecture. It’s important to furnish yourself with a lot of good lines.

You and me on the sofa whistling. Whistling the songs of David Gurdjieff.
Most evenings I will be found mounting a vintage pre-war Howitzer.
There are no pre-war Howitzers left. The materiel is all post-war now, or mid.
It’s a question of moving toward forever or away from once in a lifetime.

My ears hurt when you speak. I haven’t been in love in an hour.
The Curse of the House of Richmond flows through the veins of my father’s geraniums.
I know I am one of many but all of the colors converge in a pot outside my cell door.
Why is a cell like a fair in May? Why ask so many housebroken questions?

Who gets shot in the flabby part? Who played the night watchman weak
from lack of moisture? There is only the one film in the world, you know,
and you’re almost really good in it. It’s important to furnish yourself
with a lot of good lines, ideally endlessly repeatable.

I am in no particular order.
Laughing, smiling & peaking prematurely.
Being funny.
Organizing & planning being funny.
I am that person you would want.
I am standing next to you.
This is a time of crisis.

What time is it?
Time to leave me alone for a moment,
I’m solving all your problems.
Creating creative solutions.
Getting to a place on time.
Laughing at situations.
Kissing an art form.

That isn’t me in my photos.

On the island we only had so many books. A single book can last a lifetime, so long
as the lifetime is finite. I keep coming back to this problem. If you check out early
but the book remains unfinished, is that enough to have kept the fire going had I known?
I didn’t miss anything the entire twenty five years. Now that I’m back I miss not missing anything. Kissing, love, punctuality, inappropriate humor. Guess it’s Kindle time.
I’m going into withdrawals now. Use the options menu for subtitles.
Nothing much will appear to have happened for a week or so.
Then many, many things. Chatting & the world.

Thursday, June 16, 2011


My Shrink Says Hers Went Up Like a Dream

I want a man who isn’t afraid to circle me
on a form. There’s a line through the trees, jerk it
or make me a better offer or thank you for looking.

A tribe can migrate only so far without sticks
and a proven method. You can’t count on anything
to combust when you need it to. Not these days, nope.

Tents are hard to put up. Don’t you find that it’s hard
when you’re trying to put up a tent? I do. I think tents
are really hard. I’d rather do almost anything than have

genital measles in a tent. Tents fucking suck, man.
Look, all I’m trying to say here so you know who I am
and where I’m coming from is that I’m passionate

about a lot of things and putting up tents is one of them.
I have the desire. I have the moxy. I have the instructions.
Why can’t the tent just behave predictably like in the diagram?

They make these diagrams in China or India or Ohio.
How am I supposed to work with that? I want it to work,
really. I’ve been trying to deal with this tent thing for years

but I can’t get past some emotional or physical blockage or maybe
I’m just too nice. It’s like tents don’t want anything to do with me.
I have friends who have had the same tent for, like, fifteen,

twenty years without ever having a problem. That’s the kind
of tent I’m looking for. The one perfect tent for me. I believe
it’s possible and I have the anger necessary to make this work.

If you can relate then maybe we belong in a tent together?

I just got out of a tent I was in for almost ten years. Today, I started
leaning on angry looking Spaniards. shh. Last month, I took up salting
peoples’ wounds. I salivate too easily. I keep a single snail in my boot
(metaphorically speaking), and cook upwards of a billion meals a minute.
I can survive without astrologers, storm troopers, or fruitarian death squads…on occasion.
I collect new ideas and weave them into things you can use to make your life more bearable. If you want to woo me, try feeding me to rock stars. I’m a sort of thoroughbred savant, ridden hard and put up wet until I corrected my altitude.

All fascinating ideas make me drivel; fantasies about the future of rock stars I’ve not been flown through yet. But am I the fog or the instruments? A rock star’s dog might develop a complex formula for flying me blind without my ever knowing it. The formula might save millions of lives he could then go and snuff on TV. All when he could have flown over the bank in the first place! Flying through fog is safer than you think. Flying on instruments is a skill like playing Smoke on the Water. A dog that gifted can still elevate me just by sending adipose roadies with apologetic powders I can reinterpret as something someone with a chord and no columnar makeup might even (not possibly) remember.

Just scattergun all those imaginary adoring vibes my way. Are you ready, open and available for bar mitzvahs on zero notice? Break out in arrested bumps at the suggestion of a deeply loving and committed term of zero distance conjunctiva? Do you step up to the plate when things start to get foodier? You love intellectual pursuits, murder, and the Ohio Arts. The orders are immaterial, you died in the charts then were freed to make live infant mandalas for a system of deforestation of the mind.
If you’re mine you learn everything from the dead. Bellini once said, “The only slang worth its weight in one night stands is the slang you create yourself while creating yourself killing things.” Extra decorations if you pretend to understand the ramifications of negation of the self in the pursuit of a series of perpetually more accessible rungs. There’s booty at the bottom of the well, are you my Dear Liza Everyman? Unsure of your place in the KOA/KKK regulations as to what may be gunned or released?

Sidenote: I have a full head matte black nictitating hood that makes almost anything probable.

You have a deep affinity for integrity, and honesty. You have earned the privilege of deep connection in relationship.

This is incomprehensible code I will now translate for the benefit of anyone whose cardiac chart is written on voice of a generation replica stationary:

You look sporty in floods. You once swept a woman off her feet by swinging a knockoff Thai explorer at the weak spot not yet on her knee. You have impressed yourself mightily by sloshing through the miasma with your metalflake face intact. You are a stone cold testifier and fruit doesn’t even stick to your crewcut. You spell self declared giants when they need smack breaks. The title of your autobio is Fizzle Slovenia: My Life as a One Horse Pump. There’s a microscopic flaw in your mintage, makes you worth ten to twenty percent of anything under two cents’ face value. You are a mandala, a picture of something intended to be swept away and replaced by itself when it feels like it. You are dead, in a way, but not too dead and mine in the senses that you bought my patent on sand babies and because you feel like it.

The Thrills That Gives Me the Joys:

What gives me the joys?
Women who get vanished in small towns.
A woman called up by a visual error.
Comfortable raunch in the workplace.
The new biopsy bra by Vicky.
A by the numbers oil of HIM as a bottle of notes on a lee shore.
The hammer and pegs a failed hippie might wear.
Holy pedantry.
The reversal of the inverse color of nothing.
Walking while texting.
Texting while eating.
Eating while walking on your text.
Talking over text being read while I’m eating.
And it comes out here.
Articulating the trumpet in my jeans.
Practical mechanics applied to my innermost desires and being
harmlessly incapable of sluttiness except in the strictest sense.
Sensual things in liquid suspension.
Sex in the wake of an undisclosed agreement.
(Sex is the car you want, a dog is the car you get.)

There’s no place I wouldn’t take you, (including wakes, assassinations in the country, other assignments in the country, driving to the country to the farmer's markets to gather herbs and take them home to the country, gardening in the nude, gardening in the new police state, on top of a jagged spicerack, while cooking you or for you, while exercising my franchise to elect to read the same outside as inside, in the middle of the decomposition of my childhood Babar, destroying tents for special occasions, before, during and after ice shopping, into a blanked field as art)

I do it all for you:
Intellectual things you can think about in a tent.
New ideas for tent design.
Chasing intellectual ideas about how to design better, more efficient portable camping shelters. Learning some things then forgetting them so we can learn them again together then forget them while practicing tantric his and her tent sex at opposite ends of the galaxy in tents.
Becoming all new and debuting unchanged this weekend.
Learning to let go and teaching it to my tent.
Taking courses in tent management.
I possess the purity of knowledge of a canvas enclosure whose sole
intention is to keep my destiny from cluttering up my view.
For you I will blow a former arrested rock star.
Only for you will I imitate engagement with the word.
In my desire to please you I will initiate leaden silences.
Rock stars who go in for thinking make me nuts in the jeans.
As a favor to our future I will pretend not to notice that
I’m thinking again.
I’ll embrace good conversation until you speak.

I like being close to another, but you’ll certainly have to suffice until the semester is over
and the bus with the airbrushed plaid skull fragment comes to ride me. it hasn’t happened yet.
But companionship is like a companionway on a ship: too narrow for more than one to enjoy,
too low for anything meatless, too airless to care much what it fills with as the forward
compartment sinks below the horizon in your Space Needle sno-globe.

I don’t know about you but I’m feeling really connected! Feels like I’m loving some
form of organism that looks hot in airbrushed plaid Bermudas and flip flops.
And you? Are you feeling that I’m making someone feel as loved as I am? Feeling
like I am, and having secured a part in the chorus of Unchain the Morning Senseless,
I’m reminded of the story of Georgette, and the spot the largest one was tied to.
Having said that, with that said, at the end of the day, and going for it.

Dreaming of one more gold star reacharound with that mini-dicked eschatological Ziz
in the footnote.

The tent in my beckoning throat…the fading of the appointment’s relevance…
the braised panda we had on that first unforgettable mystery cruise to Domino’s…
how the butler’s kilt never fully relaxed…contributing to a grittier sense of the whole.
How like the air the air seems.

Friday, June 10, 2011


My Sunday is my Sanctuary

get up early make apple walk coffee eat dog.
glom up culpable self-starters, enlist able drilling team,
abandon hope of justice for downstairs breather.
Build home around current operating theater.
Level relational terrain.

Steal back guilt from jilted troll doll.
Compose threnody, 155 bpm, lure flautist into sleepwalk
monument, steal useful memoirs, initiate termination by fume.
Unarm rubber bootlicker, separate shoulder from tear duct,
rupture black label edition mary janes by scoring with Swiss
Army toothpick. Shillyshally in face of full week’s mail.
Keep out-basket airy as Stuka sleigh, take notes
on possible oomph of second string lawnmower/kisser.
Plant upside-down pineapple grenade tree. Precipitate envy
of nineteen year old Penthouse feature quadruplets.
Buy bigger canteen. Have effervescent beverage with Hebrew.
Arbitrate disarmament amongst nations of nine or fewer.

Then anything can happen.

But I wouldn't call it drama.

Riding that train would be like a forehand straight to the Marianas.
Or a wooden handled tool slicing it into memorization.

Just a bolt that creaks, of a once spry throat in chalcedony going on nothing
but urine, the admixture a series of devil’s island playdates (for my resin and
lacquer vintage me!), donors, meta-friends, patternmakers…randomly enjoying
this fluency in a new tremen. Tree men make better lumbers!

Been terribly weakened of spirit lately, tend to spend time rifling through my lovers’
thrift store castaways. Looking for leucorrhea. Going on nothing but spidey-sense.
And the thunderstorm signaling to my fin.

The miscarriage was a breeze and I’m enjoying this new shiatsu body cast.
Not so much the mail order leaks in time.

I’m a Slipper Flicker and…

I'm a fructose intolerant armature, it means I never age.
A specter fanatic with a license to prove my caravan
is a thunderbird with built-in babysitter stirrups.
I set a fire engine red fire, seven years, a city block,
and they’re still tracing back to the smoke source.
I'm a single flannel slap with a metal language tensor.
All this means is I own my own parking meter but you
would be welcome to crook my mechanism.
I knit sand.
I swear in Gaelic but only at the peaks of famines.
I like how the green part sloshes.
I'm a Latin hesitancy escalating into a full defensive thwart.
I take a fineness course every week with a famous (you know him!)
I was scoring consistently in the early 80’s but I seem to have
misplaced my team.
People who know me call me a flaming throughput junky.

I love to spin into the bales, with or without sponsorship.
At the gym I do Yoda although they hate it (hahaha got to keep
the character flexible) I take dancers home if I’m adequately
butterflied, I sometimes skin my bumps, I rid my binaries of their
dualities, like hanging a rustler just because my skirt rode up.
I hang out with Frank and the pack in wigs, I schlep my daughter’s
Tornado in a Vacuum to an amazing amount of birthday executions.
Oh, and I cook a lotus to disprove the Buddha’s take on defloration.
I am a very specific zone of twilight.

I’m Running Out at the Eyes and…

Drinking your viscous off-white wine from an amulet in my tongue ring.

I Like to Acknowledge Your Silences and…

How fabulous my daughter and dog are on those rare but getting
commoner three bottle Wednesday nights.

Like Yoda, the Walls Have Trails…

My favorite answer is to stall, then toy with you and finally say,
“I love all the kinks of your mustache.” One of the reasons I love to spin.
But attach a bellows to a teacher and you’ve got yourself a high class BJ.
Could, would, should…if we just miss sharing it's all great time to myself.

I’ll eat just about everything but your "sweet breads" and that stuff.
And I cook everything I see...while I really enjoy good "clear" food
it’s the dirty colors that get me condensing. I’ve said it a gazillion times,
conditions are meant to be stunted.

The Penchant I Trill Heavenward Like a Heedless Strangling Oy…

I'm not furled like that...but willing.

I Fester: A Cantata to Alcoholism by Disney…

This (indicating shattered monitor) is where our next vacation is
and this (indicating fibrous tumor) is how I'm going to pay for it.
That and that way (indicating strip mine) I'm such a girl.

When the Soviets Harmonized Allentown I Was…

делать толкотню с kevin costner и половинную сваренную ногу лошади

If I were a teepee I would prorate…

By the week? By the night? By the hour? By the shores of the quiet ones
that need their rest in order to behead all the daughters in this village.
Now you must answer this question. Now you must know me too long.

Vertically Challenged the Pig
(adaptation from "Pulling a Wreck From the Victim")

Tomorrow the sun admits it’s queer)

Tomorrow Annie gets a D&C. As the club footlights groan out,
when gas jet technology falters, an oil leak amusement ruins a fowl)

when fire breaks out in soft shoe, when the window sees only what you seek,

this repeating pattern in anvils become the cloud)

this is your reporter from downtown Unisom and I am
here doggie, enjoying your stolen meat stick?)

here on the street in the heart of this is not a test. Singing

bundle of tuneful merriment, abuse me!)

bundle these sensible faggots then pocket torch the wagon train. Singing
of all cows and songs sung by and about a cow)

of all the Dick tattoos a Crookback mutt most closely represents

Escape Me Never named on pain of torture starring Errol Flynn)

escape from the impossibility of anti-self-inventory
wrapped in your lossy tissue, puff?)

wrapped in an enigmatic underwire on one hovering noodle

up all night asleep as a well and chased)

up until now just powder burns from a backfire gag, bucolic
in safety against a major shift awakening)

in a spot a freak may seem a beautiful mistake, a program stain.

lights control all of the power, always)

lights believe in your density, are not your friends,
and and and this clutter on my head!)

and as if on cue a lead Cossack fucks a nursery hunter blind.

canvas and dope, the two fundamental elements of flight)

canvas your neighborhood, it’s made of cranberries.
is a word important enough to ruin fruit?)

is there nothing, then, I can do to make you choke funnier?

nothing save extract)

nothing a stops out trip to Club Pet couldn’t worsen.
but for the give of a drooping fiberglass overhang)

but to admit your speech creates a field in flummox.

a fill-in form within a ballast)

a field balanced on the simulacrum of an empty chicken.
field hands love chicken anytime)

field after field recognizes you, looks away, does not laugh much.

once is never a belly flop enough)

once the big question had been poured in concrete. Swinging
more stressed metal than literal threat)

more than the need of a meal was the need to be ratified, swinging,

when with those hips is a right time to reject the elephant?)

when to be real means the word least like you eats your aura.
the ticking around your waist)

the chalkline around a missing monster rod, albeit

carnival has the best discount packages, bar none)

carnival barking of a dog in shoes could not lure it out -
has read a book is not afraid to eat it)

has this ever not happened to you? a serially murdered victim

yanked an unfortunate euphemism)

yanked is a state of mind. you yanked at it and threw it out,
up where the air is petroleum cake, yellow, tenuous)

up to a point it was that deliverance cabin with your kinfolk,

stakes are higher the less fellatio and dictionaries under the table)

stakes all around – still stumped that it recoiled at your sight?
and to hold until we call each other’s assholes asshole)

and we can make him un-gay! it’s all in the capture rate:

we’re the car, we are not the clowns)

we’re a collective dread, we stand on each other so planes can see us.
nothing beyond the carry-out horizon sagging under its waste)

nothing more serious than a little soreness in the morning,

but the race to pretend to be good at dancing and o the skinny fat pants!)

but everything pants represent, flip-book face into rearward swinging door,
taillights sink, a tanker disaster, the coelacanth of your brownie troop)

taillights in your figurative shape, striations and sympathy peel-out marks.

once thought of as stretching, always stretch ready)

once I played it “Slim style, with the back of a single finger. I get much higher now.”
you are all the world to me minus all the world)

you were far less spacious the more monolithic. I wonder, should I?

wash day is every day, you’re fucking kidding?)

wash my mouth out with anyone else’s multiblade foam to the tongue?
the old north tower, for example, could not support a light)

the scent of Revulsion by Carol Duval took months off his hard up time.

cotton instrumental in the development of the phobia canon)

cotton panties make the worst semaphores, all you can see are the balls.
candy diorama of sugar and lethal allergens. he waits to breathe.)

candy skunk cabbage, hay sedition talk, apple brown beaters after school.

out of these three mega-hits which would you suck to?)

out one good driver but only your hybrid egg was hit, or deserved it.
of thee and of thee and of thee thee sing)

of all the eleven fifty nine reprieves at the little green door of debit

your order has been shipped to The Palace of Albumen Holes)

your commutation was a hallmark upsell with scatting chip implant
one is all you’ll ever intone)

one is the onliest number for a kissing booth missing its war concession.
good as the barmaid on my modern architecture)

good as this bargain meat might be for light gesticulation, you’ll have to

dress as a thinner, thinking, third world odor)

dress it up pretty, Teresa, he - they all - said if you expect to ride it to Wyoming
and break it for your gayer half)

and give it that desperate teal at the heart of your caloric scheme,

the sky a riot of pinks and dearths)

the silhouette of duck and pig duking it out for luau exemption,
toy that speaks! that screams! infects!)

toy black boner suctioned to your doublemint Disney mania fairy.

soldier on, my proud white funkwit)

soldier by soldier they knock, thinking you a door, get knocked up.
your ribbons lowering in deference)

your kid, meanwhile, Harvey, is a lifetime rejection notice.

kid a guy about a dog, some meat, a dream, go on)

kid by erroneous kid they repeal you for causality.
won me some funny words at the fair, ain’t I?)

won a prize hog down in Mills Bore, y’know? nary bigger than a pygmy.

at last count the pygmies were ahead)

at last count she still had her original plastered mud inserts.
the lights come on to that blonde again)

the thing that makes a house a home, the lights blow out at once,

milk from a breast is easier to reach in an upright freezer)

milk goes off on cue, a stage the size of your foot cannot be filled.
can the milk, it’s still bad diary management)

can can dancers juxtaposed with bags of razor jacks, now C.B.,

pitch white and blindingly dark, the night of a thousand stares)

pitch this to me like it’s seriously tragiconnective, like it produces
breaks itself off even)

breaks in the monotony of this solo voce rally. welcome shriners!

when will I be unloved enough?)

when will this weeping can become soup?
your guess is a ticket to the big time)

your pet hog is outside pacing on your new timeless wind up watch,

calendar roll backs don’t work, crazy!)

calendar subsidizing, lighting his gasses for poetic gravitas, these
blanches, anemics, annoying diagonal eyeholes)

blanches are just the spaces between your trunks, Dungbo,

back up another baby step toward the head shot sweet spot)

back when there were already hopeless reasons to shove in hope.
into each rain a little light must relieve itself)

into a gravitationally southbound chest it now all pulls, inexorable,

empty as the suicide bowling league)

empty of the usual anti-tragedy bathos, the tasteless milk of human
squares, if that’s all you know to draw)

squares of chocolate we, inky like Squiddly reported dialed,

when does the shrieking cop?)

when you make such a convincing jacket then fill it with your sucrose
the little things it is that make all the difference null)

the lines come off like a Moliere full bore into a retainer abutment.

stink you said. and seriously.)

stink of the hobbyist, a field of ‘em, stink skinned external?
of thee and of thee and of thee thee stink)

of the rest of who all knows you’ve flipped over this new coffee?

hogs. and seriously?)

hogs, that flat out slaughters me at this hour.
won’t your parents be wondering why you’re alive?)

won’t be long before the seizures get Dolores, the drama mellow,

scrub the foot from under your chin)

scrub to the substrate with your splinter resistant Uggs
out of spots again! damn thou aspiratory!)

out there in the dark one can scent itself coming

of thee and of etcetera)

of an age or body we can say one is for the disco inferno, and how
your borrowing blowpops is not channeling transcendence)

your brow defines you. but everyone here learns…Wanda Cisneros el oh el.

hair is another of those surface tensions)

hair, i.e., is actually the hair of a super cute model, and now
when he’s finished crossing her tees)

when the planets collate and a discrepancy emerges

the explosive natural compound the myth)

the fashion sense will be found to have been a loaner,
tractor culture back on the upswing!)

tractor beams and anal duds better suit a new potato.

coughs are your only reliable barometer)

coughs in the gallery are gathering director by director.
it’s jet lag in a cowpoke’s souvenir hat)

it’s a gala with the emphasis, fire the building’s only hope.

last time you’ll remember I was already gone)

last week the one night revival of pay-what-you-can
and there were no books worth stealing from)

and a floor to fatally leap from failed to break even, but

the anguish you felt felt like real stage anguish)

the artist’s family’s seats are a steal, and when in doubt
bank these victimizations for a pamphlet)

bank on potluck turkey. Dear Auntie Gratuity, he never

calls into a fog of ghost bafflers)

calls to equalize my gift. All my invisible friends say hi,
to anyone but present company)

to be honest the international charges are gutting my estate.

inquire without for entrance)

inquire at your convenience for the terminal bags of your faith,
about as deep as Lake Xerox)

about bonus points you can earn by just remaining inert, also

the flagship of the perpetually burning fleet)

the premium owed your crutches, isn’t it nice getting something?
flagging and observation over a period of several years)

flagging on the walkway tatters, the groundloop stars, to them

mortgage is all you can write)

mortgage is an eight letter word and you’re the ort not in it. lights down
and lights down)

and we all come at once to free bird.

we dance as if we mean to damage earth)

we elevate a derelict track to accordion off.
are you there?)

are there any more prayer lines buried in your dramatis persona?

riding to the end of the same line every line)

riding one abreast and one spare to fuck on a weedy clod,
the things about fucking you don’t know)

the things you could see from space; your lost hose,

bills you send yourself, birdlike)

bills of impossibly cooperative rapist monsters…
that this might also be a piece of timed art)

that species you tried to trade in on a late model monkey rider. the paper

lined in dull viscera)

lined your cage now we both lie in the steroid expose’. you in
your legs, move them until I say to stop)

your travelogue, “My Journey Revealed as a Dry Erase Marker”, me in

pockets were designed to contain)

pockets of ill fitting energy and the art that is sequel to slapstick.
yesterday you fell on a whole banana)

yesterday is where you leave your keys, today is a mail order master,

across 125th street I see you under a bus)

across your street they’re putting up a Siberian moonrise, spooky.
a crowd is gathering, then bored)

a committee will need to be formed to look into your fitness,

whole parades of you on wires)

whole fun fairs of splay eyed clucks disguised as rabbis,
map that triangulated the cartographer)

map the things you need to position more earthward,

of thee a bust of salt)

of the rest we can take a partial inventory,
state by state)

state their names as they file into the chute:

lines, ephemera, dross, void, bust, consistency)

lines, links, licks, lacks, sacks, sucks
gypsy-blooded. I have no usable sexual tension.)

gypsy-blooded are the few brave enough to say gypsy-blooded

and still you’re saying goodbye to something?)

and not expect a horse to follow them. from the parapets of Rotten Salami,
long as the day is elongated)

long may they keep their hole punch collection whistling,

gone as your last insertion)

gone are the days when the air was all there for the sweetening,
where have all the dogs gone, Maw?)

where the floods have inadvertently missed their mark,

will they come back do you think?)

will is a thing that must be stolen from a preemie with a higher sex quotient,
you mean we have to hunt for ourselves?)

you won’t know your life till it haunts you with scissors. must you, really,

be? where will I be? on the porch howling at tin?)

be? weren’t there some low scores worth jumping off?

Sunday, June 5, 2011


My Dream Malignancy

I love this country of mines,
from Mars to the Oglala
burial tree in my den.
We built the addition around it
and our collection of rare
constrictor skins, a life in there,
then he left me for a moron
with a calendar.

I see Josh Hartnett in everything,
it’s nice.

Love means Cramping with a capital C,
hiking up my hazmats, or just chewing
the cud at my own deliberate pace.

Leaving the pick-up on idle.

Voting something lefty down
then drinking and drinking
on it until I’m sighted.
Still not sure where I left
the white cane last night.

I’m way okay with high romance!
Downloading each other by the fire
while watching the stars come off.

Dancing in the blood.

My Dream Mangling

Draining a fox for a special romantical treat.

It’s that romance that I’m after, like
three year old trotters in the kitchen.

You can polish me up and take me.
None of the neighbor kids will mind
they’re very good about sharing.

I have words I don’t like, like
dichotomies, something I heard
in the family crypt.

I have my dreams. See?
The room to brand my love
on his hands and needles
in my little girls.

My Drum Circle (in the woods)

I don’t want to go on a plane
or dragged and stoned like the women
on my Dad’s side. Give me something
natural, I think of myself as an invitation,
A slow death in the bedroom, I am like
romaine and iceberg in one leaf.

I been saving up an antic to kill the right man.
And show him my things in the arc light.

Canada isn’t far, we’ll make love after you’re
finished rattling, caress you and hold your picture
ID against my beating dumbbell.

My Drum Circle (in the town)

I spike the simple things in life,
elks in long sites, drives up the cannon
tooling, tacking the lamp patterns in place.
I know a road less ravaged by kids.
we’ll go down it just to see where it goes down.
I am coking up for the special someone
who can’t live once he’s met me.
I know somewhere out there is a tautness
I can't live without, it’s him I’m locating,
locking the roof rack, for that last first kiss.

What I’m doodling with my knife

I am in a human salad right now
and I biodesign hybrid kitten/centaurs.
The horses are too well trained,
never enough to keep me chill.

Baking a cake of my puppy.

Cakes I’m Currently Eating

I am happening as we speak!
Are we speaking? Can we now?
You love to laugh and we will
talk about that, believe me.

I’m still good friends with Andy.
Andy always makes me smile.
Andy says you should smile more, it is
the widow to gnaw your soul.

Light me a match to guide my claw
hammer. I can see what I am here for,
and it looks golden from where I’m
taking a smoke. If I strike something
soft before dawn I promise to go
halfsies with your chosen charity.

I’m Digging For

Framing wire
Ankle irons
Loose casings
Anything too glistening
Cuz I’d like you to meet your new BFF’s